


Postcards From Italy

by rowofstars



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, non-cursed storybrooke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Gold keeps receiving postcards from his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards From Italy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by and based on Rumbelle spoilers for season 5 episode 11 in this interview with Bobby: http://rowofstars.tumblr.com/post/134560962777/theres-a-lovely-moment-in-episode-11-where-he
> 
> It's not really necessary to read the spoilers and this is a non-cursed AU so it won't really spoil you for the show. If you'd rather wait until after the episode airs to remain spoiler free, then please skip this fic. I won't be mad. :) The title is the same as a song by Florence and the Machine, which is also one of my Rumbelle songs.

Gold sighed and turned the glass of scotch where it sat on the arm of his desk chair.

In the other hand was a postcard with no sentiment and no return address. It was postmarked from Venice though, and the image on the front was a view he remembered all too well, looking down the Grand Canal in the evening with the glow of lights from the shops and restaurants lining it until it curved out of sight. He tossed back the last of the scotch and swallowed hard. The burn in his throat and the warm feeling in his belly eased the dull ache in his chest. 

Tomorrow would be their second wedding anniversary.

With a deep sigh, he tucked the card in the inside of his suit jacket and stood up, deciding that one glass was probably all he should have before he drove home. The sign on the front door was already turned to closed, so he flipped off the lights and went out the back into the alley where he parked his car.

The salmon colored Victorian had never seemed emptier than it did tonight.

Gold walked into the library, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual. He moved to the fireplace and took out the postcard, setting it next to the others that lined the mantel from one end almost all the way to other. He slipped off his suit jacket and laid it over the sofa. Then he crossed the room to a small wet bar and poured himself another drink.

He started a fire and sat in his chair, a high backed, dark leather one that was part of a pair she’d picked out special for the room. She thought they gave the space a bit of a Gothic romance feel when they were set to either side of the marble fireplace. She was always a sucker for those stories.

Gold leaned back, sipping from his glass as he looked at the line of cards.

The first one had arrived two weeks after she’d left. It was from New York and had one of those iconic images of the Statue of Liberty. He’d been confused at first because there was no message, no address, nothing to tell him what it was supposed to mean. New York was the first place he’d taken her after they became involved. They’d spent a long weekend going to a museum, a Broadway show, and dinner, even a little shopping on Fifth Avenue. The last night she’d coaxed him into dancing in their hotel room, the curtains wide open and the lights of the city surrounding them. That was the first time he’d told her he loved her.

That she’d said it back to him seemed like such a miracle at the time, and even more so now.

The second was from Charleston, the third Atlanta, and by then he’d just gotten angry. Three cases in his shop were smashed before Dr. Hopper wandered by and saw what was happening. It took Sheriff Graham, David Nolan, and Hopper to get him settled down, though he refused to talk about why he was so upset. Because he was technically destroying his own property there was no crime and he was left with a mess to clean up and a nasty cut on his hand that needed six stitches.

The fourth was Disney World.

That one had almost made him smile. They’d talked about going there, though he knew he’d hate almost every minute of it. She loved all the princesses, the movies, the songs, and she’d always wanted to go as a child. But her parents weren’t the type that had much extra for family vacations. For her, he would go and suffer through how every many rounds of Magic Mountain she wanted just to see her smile and hear her laugh. Hell he’d even have put on those ridiculous mouse ears.

The fifth was New Orleans and after that he knew she was working her way across the country, slowly but surely, hitting all the places she’d only ever seen in pictures. The one from Hollywood was a cheesy image of the sign with Marilyn Monroe’s silhouette on the side, and the one right after from Beverly Hills. All he could think of was Pretty Woman and how she’d watch it anytime it was on TV, even if she came in on the middle of it. He didn’t see the appeal, but she was a romantic at heart and he loved her for it, loved that she brought out that side of him too.

The credit card bill he got after that stung his checking account a little bit, but he couldn’t say he minded. The plane tickets, bus tickets, rental cars, restaurants, he didn’t care. She was living her dream and he would do nothing to stop her.

The postcards continued, moving all around the country, and then the continent, week after week, almost always arriving on Thursdays. Then there was a gap before the next one came, just as he’d begun to worry that something had happened to her or that she’d given up and forgot about him. It showed up on a Tuesday, his birthday. It was from Scotland.

He would probably wonder to his grave if she planned it and how she managed to time international mail so perfectly. He went through an entire bottle of his most expensive scotch that night, and more than paid for it in the morning.

As if his heart hadn't been paying penance enough.

After a while, the bitterness faded, and he started coming home and setting them up on the mantel to admire. He even dug the first ones out of the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d have a drink and imagine he was there with her, seeing her eyes light up with each new discovery. He thought about the things they might see, the places they’d go, and sometimes if he closed his eyes and took a deep breath he could smell the food or the ocean or the crisp mountain air. There were times he’d even dream he was there, strolling down the street with her arm wrapped around his or standing back to take a picture of her with some famous landmark in the background. On very few occasions the dreams were more - explicit. The mornings after those were the worst.

After Scotland, the cards came on varied days, mail being what it is, and he found that the days there wasn’t one he was a little sadder. It was his connection to her, his way of knowing she was alive and well and hopefully happy.

At night he’d wonder and imagine and stare into the fire; the next day he’d open the shop and go on with his lonely life.

It was what he deserved after all, for the things he’d done to her and their relationship. He had done all the things he’d promised her he wouldn’t. He lied, even by omission, and tried to choose a path for her. Those were unforgivable sins in her eyes, especially after everything she’d gone through with her father and that terrible fiance who’d hurt her so badly that she’d runaway to a tiny town in Maine to hide. And he’d done them more than once. 

He guessed she’d just run out of second chances to give him.

He didn’t deserve her love anymore, he knew that, but that she thought of him at all on her travels was something. Slowly but surely, he’d changed. He didn’t even know when it had started. Maybe it was the card from St. Petersburg or the one with the pyramids from Egypt, he couldn’t say, but it was definitely happening by the time she made it to Japan. With a picture of cherry blossoms in his inside jacket pocket, he’d decided to forgive Martha Lucas’s debts. She was an old woman and to saddle her granddaughter with the sins of generations suddenly seemed too despicable even for Mr. Gold, beast of Storybrooke.

Gold looked down and frowned at his glass. Somewhere in the midst of his reminiscing he’d finished it, and he hadn’t even contemplated the most recent postcard.

 _Venice_.

That one stung.

He pushed to his feet and winced as his leg stretched and ached. It was just as well that she was gone. It wouldn’t do to have such a vibrant young woman chained to a bitter old man. She deserved the life she was having, the adventure of seeing the world, experiencing life. He was glad he could give her that even if he couldn’t give her his love anymore.

After pouring a half glass, he moved back to the chair and sat, staring into the fire. The dancing flames and the quiet crackling sound were soothing. They’d spent many hours in the evening tucked away in this room, wrapped up in books or a movie and each other. His eyes slipped shut and he took a deep breath, imagining the feeling of her fingers trailing through his hair. He’d lay his head in her lap while she read aloud, the book and the words not mattering as much as her gentle touch and warmth.

But Venice, well, he had to wonder what _that_ meant.

She’d sent him a postcard of a familiar view that arrived on their anniversary. She was either being purposefully cruel, or there was some message he was supposed to derive. There was no way she didn’t have something in mind when she’d sent it. It was where they’d spent their honeymoon, the most blissful week of his life.

Did it mean that it was really over? Would there be divorce papers delivered next? Or would the cards stop all together now?

He could imagine her settling down for a bit in some European city, teaching or working in a shop. It’d probably be a bookshop. She knew enough French and German to get by, and she was smart. He knew she could succeed anywhere, be happy anywhere, but he could only be truly happy with her.

Sighing, he stood again and set the glass on the bar. His thoughts had turned too maudlin for anymore drink, and his head was fuzzy enough that he would sleep heavy tonight. There would hopefully be no dreams, no reliving happier times.

Gold shifted the logs around in the fireplace with the poker until the fire was burning low and he was satisfied that it would burn itself out safely. In the hall, he eyed the path to the kitchen, wondering if he should eat something more than the late lunch he’d had at the shop, but the pain in his gut wasn’t from hunger.

He looked around the hall and back into the library. There was still so much of her here. Perhaps it was time to start packing it up. Not to get rid of, of course, just to make it not so - _visible_ anymore. He could have Mr. Dove do it while he was at the shop that way he could come home and it would be over. Their marriage, her existence in his life for the past four years, gone; nothing but memories left.

He sniffed loudly and swallowed, then gave a quick shake of his head before he started to climb the stairs.

He’d gone up two steps when there was a firm knock on the front door. He stood there, holding onto the railing and frowned. It was too late for a social call, not that he ever got them anyway. Hand tight on the handle of his cane, Gold pulled open the front door and felt all the breath rush out of him.

“Belle,” he gasped softly.

She smiled, small and nervous, and rocked a little as she shifted back and forth from one foot to another. “Hey,” she replied. Her fingers twisted the strap of her purse.

“Hey,” he breathed, returning her slight smile.

He glanced to the side and saw a suitcase sitting behind her on the porch. His heart leapt at the possibility that she’d come home to him, but it was tempered by the thought that perhaps mailing him divorce papers was just too cold and cruel. She might have decided to deliver them in person.

Stepping back, he held the door open so she could come inside. Her suitcase tipped as she pulled it over the threshold, and he leaned forward to help her at the same time she bent to take the handle. They ended up barely an inch apart. He could feel her breath on his face and smell her perfume.

Abruptly, she straightened and turned away from him to push the suitcase against the wall under the coat hooks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said, taking her purse off her shoulder and setting it on top of the suitcase.

Gold shook his head. “No, it’s - it’s fine.” She turned back to face him, that same unsure smile in place. He wanted to kiss it away until she was smiling for real, until he knew she was back and he was maybe just a little bit forgiven.

He watched her as she looked around the entryway and then followed after her as she moved down the hall to the library. 

“It looks the same,” she said. Her fingers brushed over the spines of the books on the first shelf.

He shrugged. “Didn’t see a reason to change anything.” At that she smiled and moved further into the room until she stopped by the chairs, staring over the fireplace at the mantel. He cleared his throat. 

“I, um, I got your postcards,” he managed.

She muttered a quiet _yeah_ and stepped forward. Her hand stretched out, fingers reaching towards the line of cards, but then she stopped and pulled it back. When she turned again to look at him, her eyes were bright, shining with tears.

He moved to her immediately and she fell against him, her hands clutching at his shirt. His arms came around her, letting his cane fall to the floor. She sniffled and pressed her face against his chest, and he squeezed her tight, hands splayed across her back.

After a moment, she tipped her head up and pulled back a bit, and he loosened his arms just enough to let her move. Her hands rubbed his chest idly, as she looked at him. She seemed to want to stay close and he was going to let her for as long as she wanted. If this was how she came home to break his heart, so be it. He was grateful even for these small, last moments.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling again.

He shook his head. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I understand why you left.”

She smiled. “Yeah, I think you do,” she said. Then she pulled away, and he frowned. She bent to pick up his cane and handed it to him, then her arms wrapped around her middle protectively.

Gold’s fingers flexed around the handle until it felt comfortable against his palm. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. He couldn’t let himself get his hopes up that she might be back for good. “Why are you here, Belle?”

Her face fell. “Oh, um,” she paused, looking around the space as her hand rubbed up and down her left arm. Then she met his eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought -” she stopped again as her eyes welled up with tears. 

“I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry,” she said in a rush, pushing past him

She headed for the door, but Gold turned as quick as his leg would allow and he caught her by the arm.

“Belle, please.”

She turned, swiping her free hand over her cheek.

He let go of her arm, swallowed and blinked, feeling the wet trickle on his face as his own tears fell free. “Why?” he choked out.

Her bottom lip wobbled. “I - I went to Venice.”

He nodded, forcing a tight, wet smile.

 

She sniffed. “I thought -” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I thought, but it - it wasn’t _right_. None of it was. I went around the whole world and it was all wrong.”

Gold took a chance and stepped closer, hoping she didn’t mean that they weren’t right. “What wasn’t right?” he whispered.

Belle swallowed and reached for him, her palm cupping his cheek as her thumb brushed away a fresh tear from the corner of his eye. “You weren’t there.”

He bent his head, slowly, giving her time to move away if she wanted, but she pushed up on her toes and met him halfway. It wasn’t a tentative, shy kiss, it was familiar, lips and mouths meeting with certainty and purpose after ages of being apart. She didn’t hold back, her hands pushing into his hair, holding him close as his settled at her waist to pull her body against his.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, sucking in a lungfull of air and licking her lips. He leaned his forehead against hers, panting as his heart pounded with happiness and desire.

“Are you - are you home?” he asked.

She nodded, not breaking the contact with his skin, and smiled. “I never left.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day another postcard arrived. 

This one postmarked much closer to home, and with a very familiar image on it of a clock tower and a quaint looking town. Across it in a fat, blocky font was the name Storybrooke.

After breakfast, they went into the library, and Belle stood on her tiptoes to set the postcard on the mantel. Then she leaned back against him as his arms came up around her, and they looked up together at the line of cards. His eyes drifted over all of them, the memories of their pictures and days he received them still very fresh.

They now stretched from one end to the other, ending at a picture in a silver frame sitting next to an antique hurricane lantern. She tipped her head back and smiled, and he looked down at her, a near perfect copy of the picture in the frame, their wedding picture, if it weren’t for their bedraggled hair and pajamas.

“Happy Anniversary, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the side of her head.

She hummed. “Happy Anniversary.”

“So are you done traveling for a while?” he asked. He was still afraid that this might be just a break for her, and that she would leave him again in a few days. Later he might wonder if it had all been a dream.

She shook her head and looked up at him again, a smirking smile curving her lips. “I think I might have gotten it out of my system for a while, but there’s so much to see out there. I’m not sure I’ll ever be done.”

“Oh,” he replied.

She felt his arms tense and her hand came up to hold his where it was resting over her stomach. “I think, though, that next time you should come with me.”

He smiled. “Of course. Then you can save money on postcards.”


End file.
